What Tolkien never told us
by infomat
Summary: Angsty beginnings have humorous ends... includes:scones, Figwit, mushrooms and of course strange goings on
1. Pie Crust Prologue

Once upon a time I was falling in love, Now I'm only falling apart. Nothing I can do, A total eclipse of the heart.  
  
A cloaked figure stepped from the shadows of the courtyard. No one would notice her now, they had been long searching the forest, and the scent was cooling. She would have to be quick though; even the least nimble of mind would work out where her last visit would take place.   
  
Stealing along the passages of the elven halls of Mirkwood, the figure felt memories returning to her, of past times, when she had walked here proud and sure of whom she was, laughing with friends. Now though, it was time for secrecy. She passed by every other door, never pausing, certain of her goal. The chamber at the end of the hall. A room she now was afraid to see. Pushing its door open, the figure slipped inside noiselessly, allowing the door to click shut behind her. The sleeping form that lay in the bed stirred ever so slightly as she knelt by the bedside. Time stood still, like a breath held in, as the secret visitor stared at the rooms inhabitant, seeming to paint every contour and shadow into her memory, etch every crease of the fabric into her heart.   
  
The moment broke, as the sound of footsteps and hushed voices could be heard beyond the door. Acting with haste, the shadowy visitor did what she had come to do, gently uncurling the fingers of the sleeper and looping the black lace of a necklace around them. A bittersweet smile crept on to her face, as the fingers clasped subconsciously at the lace. "To remember me," sounded the soft, melodic undertones of her voice, before lightly kissing the sleepers lips. Crossing to the balcony, the cloaked figure swung nimbly into an over hanging tree, pausing to look back only once, before descending its dizzying height and melting into the shadows of the forest below. She was gone.  
  
Silence settled once more on the bedchamber, before the quiet of the night was shattered, as three fully armed guards burst through the door, waking the peacefully slumbering inhabitant. "We are sorry lord, we thought she would be here."   
  
The startled inhabitant's pulse slowed to it's natural pace again, before he replied. "No, she has not been here. Don't you think I may have awakened?" He made no effort to hide the bitterness that filled his voice, as he intently studied the bed-sheet.   
  
"We are sorry lord." The guards hastily retreated to the dark corridor, leaving the room quiet.   
  
The fully awakened inhabitant could not hope of sleep returning, and instead stepped from his bed, crossing to the balcony. The light breeze lifted his hair gently and he enjoyed the way it softly caressed his skin. As he lent on the rail, he became aware he was clasping something in his hand. Looking down, the black lace came into focus, the deep purple amethyst ring hanging from it swaying gently in the breeze, glinting under the pale moonlight. He recognised it. It had belonged to her. Sighing deeply, he toyed with the lace, before carefully looping it around his neck allowing it to hang against his chest. Leaning again on the rail, he saw a flash of pale silver in the shadow of the night. All at once he felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle, as he became aware of someone's gaze upon him. Gazing deeper into the shadows he tried to find his watcher, but to no avail. They had gone.  
  
"Namarie," he whispered to the wind, having guessed the identity of his watcher. And below him she smiled as she watched him turn and walk into the darkness and comfort of his room once more. "Namarie Melamin," sounded her whispered reply to the darkness, as she rode silently away.  
  
Once upon a time there was light in my life, Now there's only love in the dark. Nothing I can say, A total eclipse of the heart. 


	2. Pie Crust chapter 1

- one - The Screw Up of the Millennium  
  
  
  
Mr. Ebert tapped his fat fingers on his desk, clearly agitated. It was the   
  
morning after Oscar night 2002,   
  
and the Academy had just received the 876th e-mail from yet another crazed Lord   
  
of the Rings fan who was   
  
royally pissed that their favorite movie had not won any of the major awards -   
  
that were so clearly deserved -   
  
at the Oscars.   
  
"What are we supposed to do about it?" muttered Ebert to himself. In truth,   
  
the Academy did not plan   
  
to do anything to satisfy the angered fans. The Academy did not give a damn   
  
about the emails. But they still   
  
needed to do something in case the press found out and the situation was blown   
  
out of proportion faster than   
  
Jordan. Ebert had been assigned the task of finding a solution to this potential   
  
problem, as he was the only   
  
person who had enough unexplained hate for the film to carry out the job. The   
  
rest of the Academy didn't   
  
actually mind the Lord of the Rings that much. Some even resurrected their cold,   
  
lifeless bodies long enough   
  
to enjoy it. But they still believe in their mission to be remembered as the   
  
most biased and generally pissed   
  
Hollywood council of them all.   
  
Ebert continued to talk to himself, lost in aimless thought, tapping his   
  
fingers louder and harder until   
  
they were probably bruised.  
  
"I mean, why does anyone care about this so-called 'scandal'? It's just a   
  
movie."   
  
Ha!  
  
Wrong again, you fat git. Little did Ebert know that the Lord of the Rings   
  
was literally not just a movie. It   
  
was a whole universe, hidden behind a sneakily concealed portal. And this portal   
  
was inside Ebert's filing   
  
cabinet. The second drawer from the bottom.  
  
I think you realize by now that Ebert is not a very aware man, to put it   
  
lightly. To be blatantly honest, he   
  
is just dim, and deliberately daft as well. And so the next plot twist should   
  
come as no surprise to you.  
  
"Figwit. Figwit!! Figwit!!!!!!" yelled Ebert, banging his fist on the desk.   
  
"Figwit, Figwit, Figwit, Figwit,   
  
Fiiiiiiiiiigwiiiiiiiiiit!!"  
  
A tall being burst into the room, breathless and puffy faced. He was   
  
immaculately dressed. Although he   
  
was wearing a peculiar brown waist coat and green stockings decorated with   
  
silver and black tracings, he was   
  
still, undeniably, immaculately dressed.   
  
"Yes, sir?" panted Figwit.  
  
"You always take forever getting to my office, " Ebert muttered bitterly.   
  
"I was on the 3rd floor...I ran... as fast as I could. I had to take the   
  
stairs again... "  
  
"The stairs? The stairs? Why not take the lift?"  
  
"But, Mr. Ebert, the lift doesn't go to the 69th floor..."  
  
"Figwit!!!" boomed Ebert. "Always the same excuse..." Figwit nodded   
  
sullenly. Ebert's head suddenly   
  
jerked upwards, as though it were high on steroids. "Where's your cloak?" he   
  
demanded.  
  
"I got rid of it. You said it was bothering you."  
  
"Damn right it was. Where is it?"  
  
"It's in my office"  
  
"Chuck it. Shred it. Dispose of it." Figwit's eyes widened in alarm. His   
  
mouth dropped open.  
  
"But, sir... I got that cloak from Lothlorien -"  
  
"A who?" Ebert did his head jerk again.  
  
"Nothing... " muttered Figwit. Ebert put his pen down and looked Figwit in   
  
the eye. Figwit blinked   
  
innocently back at him. Ebert continued to stare psychopathically. "Erm, Mr.   
  
Ebert, is there a reason you   
  
called me up here?"   
  
Ebert thought for a minute.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Yes," he confirmed. "There is. I need some help, my young apprentice. You   
  
may have heard about the   
  
issue with the Best Picture award...?"  
  
"Oh yeah. It was a scandal, wasn't it? I mean, A Beautiful Mind sucked. I   
  
really don't understand why   
  
Fellowship didn't win."  
  
"That, I believe, " began Ebert testily, " is the opinion of some rather   
  
corrupt individuals who have been   
  
e-mailing us constantly. It is my job to prevent them from doing so."  
  
"Ah. And you need me because... ?"  
  
"I have a plan. I need you to go to Middle Earth and perform what I hope   
  
will be- "  
  
"Middle Earth?" screeched Figwit. "You know about the portal to Middle   
  
Earth?!"  
  
"Eh? I meant New Zealand."   
  
Figwit paused. "Oh. I didn't say anything then... er... I meant pothole.   
  
Downstairs. In the, erm..." Figwit   
  
fumbled for words. "In the canteen. They have pots. Of chicken soup. And, er,   
  
holes as well. In the sink. Holes   
  
in the sink where they drain the water."  
  
"Um..."  
  
"No, it's true! It's true! They have potholes. I meant to say potholes!"  
  
"Figwiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!" yelled Ebert. Figwit shut up. "You said there was a   
  
portal."  
  
"No, there is chicken soup in the - "  
  
"Figwit..."  
  
"Yes, I did say portal; it's in your filing cabinet, second drawer from the   
  
bottom," confessed Figwit   
  
quickly. "And it takes you directly to Mount Doom. That's the problem with it."  
  
"Right then... cool. This will make everything much easier," chuckled Ebert   
  
happily.  
  
"Oh."   
  
Ebert leaned forward, a malicious glint in his eye. He took a piece of   
  
paper and scribbled something on   
  
it. "Now what I want you to do is..."  
  
Figwit took the piece of paper. His eyes widened in shock.  
  
  
  
  
  
Later that week, Figwit was feeling rather nervous. He took a deep breath   
  
and then walked through the   
  
door to Ebert's office. Inside were two other Academy members and Ebert himself.   
  
"Hello everyone," he said in a high pitched voice. Everyone nodded in   
  
greeting. Figwit fumbled with his   
  
black cloak, and for the first time, Ebert noticed that he was wearing it again.   
  
Ebert narrowed his eyes, but   
  
didn't say anything. He was far too worried about what was about to happen to   
  
give a sausage roll about   
  
anything else.   
  
Ebert realized that he hadn't explained to Figwit in great detail what he   
  
was supposed to do, but instead   
  
had simply taken Figwit's shocked look as his understanding of the task. Oh well.  
  
"Are you ready?" asked an Academy member.  
  
"Yes," replied Figwit. He couldn't quite believe he was saying this, and   
  
quickly reminded himself that a   
  
massive bundle of cash would be waiting for him as soon as he got back to our   
  
dimension.  
  
"Good. I trust that you will -"  
  
"Oh, wait," interrupted the other Academy member. "Here, Mr. Figwit. I   
  
almost forgot." He handed a   
  
small, rectangular, plastic object to Figwit. At the top there was a metal   
  
mechanism. It all looked rather   
  
complicated, and more than a little bit clever. Figwit gazed at it in awe.  
  
"What is it?" he asked. The Academy member coughed.  
  
"It is," he said, "a lighter. I believe that it will help you on this   
  
mission of yours."  
  
"But... er... who... um...?" asked Figwit, confused.   
  
"Oh, crap!" yelled Ebert. "Mary Poppins is on the telly soon!" A distant   
  
look came into the Academy   
  
members' eyes.  
  
"Ah, fond memories," said one.   
  
"Yes, a glorious specimen of film at it's best, unaffected by the   
  
mediocrity of today's cinema... fucking   
  
Star Wars." he added bitterly. They all stood in silence for a moment.  
  
"Erm," began Figwit. "Again I ask, why exactly do I need a lighter?"  
  
"Dammit, Figwit!" snapped Ebert. "I thought you understood! You seem to   
  
understand how much   
  
you're going to receive for this task, don't you? Why can't you remember what   
  
your mission actually is, you -   
  
"  
  
"Of course, Mr. Ebert, sir. Of course I remember," Figwit said hastily.  
  
"Then you should walk into the filing cabinet now, otherwise we're going to   
  
miss Mary Poppins! And,   
  
don't forget, if you begin with the woods then it will spread quicker. I believe   
  
that there is often an Easterly   
  
wind this time of year in Middle Earth."  
  
"What?!?!" yelled poor Figwit.  
  
"Start with the woods! And then do the flippin' task again in Gondor, you   
  
pratt! Then Rohan, then   
  
Lórien, then the Shire and then Mordor!!"  
  
"So you want me to do it again and again? But I might not have enough   
  
flour!!"  
  
"What?!?!" yelled stupid Ebert.  
  
"And sugar! How can I do this if I don't have the right ingredients or   
  
equipment?"  
  
"What are you talking about, man? All the equipment you need is right there   
  
in your hand!"  
  
"How can you say that?" argued Figwit. "The only reason why I have what I   
  
need is that I packed my   
  
satchel myself! Oh, I suppose you weren't even aware that I had to do that? Well,   
  
it looks like someone has   
  
been relying too heavily on his ready meals!"  
  
"What are you on about, man? Sometimes I don't have a clue why I hired you,   
  
Figwit. Half the   
  
unemployed people out there know how to execute such a simple a task properly!   
  
And almost all of them   
  
have proper names! I mean, c'mon: Figwit. Figwit is a stupid name. What was your   
  
mother drinking?"   
  
Figwit went red. "Well, when you were born, your mother was probably   
  
wondering why she had given   
  
birth to an ignorant little fu -"   
  
"Eeeek!" squeaked an Academy member. Ebert and Figwit shut up. "Marry   
  
Poppins! We've missed the   
  
first five minutes!" Ebert glanced at his watch and shoved Figwit in front of   
  
the filing cabinet.  
  
"Get going, man! And remember what I've just told you!"  
  
"What?" sulked Figwit. "I don't have a proper name?" Ebert rolled his eyes   
  
and made for the door. The   
  
other two members were already half way down the corridor to the TV room.  
  
"Go on! I have to go now. Don't come back till you've finished, and don't   
  
think that you're going to be   
  
allowed to wear that black cloak forever, man! You're not Darth Vader, y'know?"   
  
With that, Ebert was gone,   
  
his pudgy frame out of the room startlingly quickly. All was silent.  
  
Sighing heavily, Figwit slowly lowered himself into the filing cabinet.   
  
In ten minutes, Figwit had arrived on the other side of the portal, right   
  
outside Mount Doom. Shivering,   
  
he gazed up at the giant, dominating lump of ash and rock. It seemed rather   
  
intimidating. He knew he would   
  
have to climb it.   
  
Figwit wearily slung his satchel on his back, leapt deftly onto the pathway   
  
and there he began his hour   
  
long journey. All the time, he muttered about his employer. Figwit really had no   
  
idea what Ebert had been   
  
talking about. And why was he now carrying a lighter? The flour, milk and yeast   
  
were heavy enough.  
  
Finally, Figwit puffed his way to the entrance of the Crack of Mount Doom.   
  
He crept into a discreet   
  
corner close to the mountain's inside wall and lay the ingredients out on the   
  
ledge, barely able to stand the   
  
heat. He was just beginning to mix in the sugar when he realized that there was   
  
someone else on the ledge.   
  
Figwit slowly turned around, hoping that it was whom he thought it was.  
  
He saw a dark, hooded figure stooped over a pot of something bright and   
  
shiny. It seemed human, was   
  
deep in concentration and had obviously not noticed him. Figwit relaxed.  
  
He got up and bounded lightly over to the end of the ledge where the   
  
mysterious person sat.   
  
"Ahem." Figwit coughed. The figure swiftly concealed the pot with a swish   
  
of his cloak and spun   
  
around in astonishment.   
  
"Figwit?" he gasped, his voice a mixture of surprise and amusement. "What   
  
are you doing here? I   
  
thought you'd left Middle Earth for good..." Sauron removed his hood, and his   
  
sunken eyes gazed at Figwit   
  
in disbelief.  
  
"Hey, Sauron, man. How are you doing?"   
  
"Good, good, very good... What are you doing here? Isn't that other   
  
dimension satisfactory anymore?"  
  
"Oh, it's alright, but I've got a task to do in Middle Earth for my boss."  
  
"He knows that you can get to Middle Earth?" Sauron exclaimed, and Figwit   
  
noticed with slight   
  
surprise how scarily red his friend's glowing eyes were. "I thought that was our   
  
secret."  
  
"Yeah, but I have to do this mission thing. Ebert's been getting real moody   
  
lately. Problems with his   
  
sexuality, I guess."  
  
Sauron nodded. "How long can you stay for?"  
  
"I reckon I can stay a good year or so; time goes fast here, and even   
  
faster for an elf like I. By the time I   
  
get back to my dimension only a day will have passed. Why do you ask?"  
  
"Well, I have a bit of advice for you, Figgy. You might want to get back to   
  
your dimension sooner than   
  
you planned. I have work to do in Middle Earth. Not all of it will be very   
  
pleasant. You should get out of my   
  
way - you know I can never remember who my friends are when world domination and   
  
my ego get in the   
  
way."  
  
"Oh, alright," said Figwit, taken aback. There was an awkward silence while   
  
they pondered on world   
  
domination.  
  
"So, erm," began Figwit. "Tell me, Sauron, how exactly do you plan to   
  
dominate Middle Earth? You   
  
never struck me as the dominating type."   
  
Sauron seemed slightly nervous. He glanced around to make sure no one else   
  
was listening, and   
  
carefully lifted his cloak up off the pot, revealing a molten, white hot metal   
  
that looked suspiciously like gold.  
  
"That, my friend, is how I will dominate this world," Sauron said quietly,   
  
with a grin which would have   
  
made Nick from My Family jealous.  
  
Figwit stared at the contents of the pot, eyebrows raised slightly.   
  
"You see?" Sauron whispered.   
  
"Erm... yes?"  
  
"Really? Do you really understand the sheer marvellousity of my plan?"   
  
Sauron asked excitedly.   
  
Figwit coughed. "Ah, well, erm... actually, no."  
  
"Oh. Alright then." There was another awkward silence. Figwit hastily spoke.  
  
"Erm, you're a great guy, Sauron, and I know you're real clever and   
  
everything, but er, well, how   
  
exactly does this work?"  
  
"It's quite simple really. I pour all of my malice, greed and will to   
  
dominate all life into this gold that   
  
will form into a ring. And then I will wear it on my finger and the world will   
  
automatically be mine, no?"  
  
"Well... isn't that a bit of a crazy idea? I mean, it works in the film,   
  
just about -"  
  
"What film?"  
  
"Oh, nothing... But in real Middle Earth it might be hard to pull off."  
  
"I'm quite confident that I can do it," Sauron assured. "It can't be that   
  
hard. It's such an amazingly   
  
brilliant plan - and so easy as well! Imagine, using a ring, I can kill   
  
everyone!"  
  
"But what was all that crap about pouring malice and greed and all that   
  
shit into it? How do you do   
  
that?"  
  
"I asked myself that same question, but I suppose that I just have to tell   
  
it creepy stories or something."   
  
Sauron shrugged. "I'm not too sure, to be honest."  
  
"So you will talk to it? And then wear it and the world will 'automatically   
  
be yours', as you say?"  
  
"Precisely."  
  
"It'll never work."  
  
Sauron went red. "It will!"  
  
"It won't! Trust me on this one, Sauron; this is the crappiest idea I've   
  
ever heard."  
  
"Fine then, Figwit. What are you doing in Mount Doom that is so clever?   
  
Eh?" Sauron said testily, his   
  
voice quivering with emotion.  
  
"I am making a fruit scone." said Figwit with as much pride and dignity as   
  
he could muster.   
  
"A fruit scone. What for?"  
  
"To destroy Middle Earth."  
  
"You psycho."  
  
"You as well."  
  
"We're both retards."  
  
"I agree... do you think it'll work?" asked Figwit nervously.  
  
"Not really. But we'll see how it goes. I think that a piece of jewelry   
  
will take over the world before a   
  
fruit scone will, but we'll see how it goes..."  
  
"I think that you're wrong."  
  
"How about a bet?"  
  
"On what?"  
  
"I bet you my metallic mask-head-gear-thingy that I will take over the   
  
world before you."  
  
"The shiny black mask-head-gear-thingy?"  
  
"The shiny black mask-head-gear-thingy."  
  
"Done. And if you do win, which you won't, I'll give you my black cloak."  
  
"Cool."  
  
"Right. I'll see you when I come to claim my mask. I actually have a use   
  
for it, unlike you."  
  
"Chal," said Sauron as Figwit went back to his corner and slowly baked the   
  
fruit scone, more   
  
determined than ever.   
  
Hours passed and Sauron had long gone by the time the scone was done.   
  
Figwit inhaled sharply when   
  
he caught sight of his work of golden brown art. It smelled delicious.   
  
"No doubt many will be after you on your travels, my creation. But I know   
  
you'll do fine," Figwit   
  
whispered psychotically. "I christen you... Kemen Yäve Ar Ruth Lhach! It is now   
  
all down to you, young one!"   
  
He placed Kemen Yäve near the entrance of the Crack. With a swish of his black   
  
elven cloak, Figwit was gone.   
  
  
  
Figwit appeared in Ebert's office, realizing that Ebert still had not   
  
returned from watching Mary   
  
Poppins. In fact, only ten minutes had passed in this dimension.   
  
Figwit walked proudly to the desk, where a piece of bright yellow paper   
  
caught his eye. He recognized   
  
it as the instructions that he translated from English to Elvish when Ebert   
  
assigned him his first important task   
  
- the task he had just completed. It was quite difficult to translate, Figwit   
  
remembered. He had little   
  
experience with translating English on paper, and had found this particular   
  
order hard to read in his native   
  
tongue, as it was not an order he read everyday.   
  
He picked it up, smiling smugly, confident that he had already performed   
  
this task and that he had   
  
performed it well. Once again, his grey eyes skimmed over the surface as he   
  
translated it for the second time   
  
that day - this time free from the psychotic and intimidating stare of Richard   
  
Ebert.  
  
"Burn," he read aloud, eyes creased in concentration.  
  
"Middle... Earth."  
  
He cleared his throat.  
  
"With a ... lighter?"  
  
5 minutes passed.  
  
"And."  
  
10 minutes passed.  
  
"Pop down to Upper Crust afterwards."  
  
... pause.  
  
"To buy me a fruit scone."  
  
  
  
Figwit's eyes popped out of his head. "Woowee." 


	3. Pie Crust chapter 2

- two - The Rising of the Scone  
  
A few months later, something stirred in Middle Earth. It was a golden brown scone, and it smelled   
  
delicious. Carefully, the scone used her arms to get up. She had two jam blobs for eyes and two arms on either   
  
side of her body. Looking around the inside of Mount Doom with vague surprise, Kemen Yäve waddled out   
  
of her corner and out of the mountain.   
  
The fruit scone looked up at the dark sky. She immediately felt evil stirring in this bleak land, but her   
  
anxiety was quickly replaced by a need for adventure. The little scone made her way slowly down the   
  
mountain, aware of how isolated this place was. She decided that she would have to get out of this dark, evil   
  
smelling place and find somewhere more interesting, and less frightening.   
  
The sun retreated away from Mordor, and sky grew dark. As Kemen Yäve waddled about in no specific   
  
direction - she was probably going around in circles for all she knew or cared - she saw a bright yellow statue   
  
in the far-away distance, illuminating the grey rock on which it stood. She hurried towards it, longing to see   
  
something other than the black, jagged mountain.  
  
  
  
Seventeen days later she arrived at the foot of the statue and looked up in awe. It was not a statue, but a   
  
blade of grass. Not just any blade of grass, though. It was a foot high, yellow abomination... that sang. And it   
  
sang to her startled face; "Greetings oh wondrous sconey scone! What brings you to Mordor?"  
  
Kemen Yäve stared in disbelief at the blade of grass, shook her crumbly self and once again looked up at   
  
the yellow blade. It had a kindly face with a horizontal slit for a mouth, and eyes that were a slightly different   
  
shade of yellow from its body.   
  
"I was baked here, and I don't know how to get out of this barren wasteland," Kemen Yäve said in what   
  
she hoped was a confident voice.  
  
"Ah! A-HA! I can help you there! I am Lina, the magical, musical, yellow, foot high blade of grass!!!!!"   
  
sang Lina, ending on a crescendo that shook the ground.   
  
Kemen Yäve stared again.   
  
Lina stared back with round, inquisitive, dark yellow eyes, and again began to sing. "Let me help you!   
  
Let me help you! I have known this land for years: you are in Mordor, and if I don't help you, you will be   
  
close to tears... before the end of the DAY!"  
  
"Mordor?" she repeated timidly after Lina had finished.  
  
"Yes, Mordor... don't say you haven't heard of it. Mordor... the wasteland of death and shit. Mordor...   
  
the home of Sauron the git..."  
  
"Er, how did you end up in this place?" the scone asked, and soon wished she hadn't. At once, Lina   
  
became sad and sorrowful. Her elegant, yellow grass tip of a head drooped.  
  
"I will not speak of what has befallen such a cheerful grass blade, such a cheerful grass blade..." Lina   
  
sang tragically. Kemen Yäve looked up at her with sympathy, and slight confusion. Suddenly Lina   
  
straightened up and burst into a joyful melody.   
  
"But that has all gone - the evil, the torture, the countless years of pain! For I am free, now... I have   
  
escaped from the field I once knew, the place I grew up in alone... That is all I shall say... for now.   
  
"I have spoken for longer than I planned, we must leave this empty land. Now, where do you wish to go?   
  
We must leave before the snow. Winter is ever near, and it's the cold that I fear. Come, follow my song, and   
  
we shall run north to Morannon! Or maybe you'd prefer the air to be of cleaner smell? Then let us journey   
  
west to Rivendell! Or Lothlórien, if your heart is clear, and then perhaps to Mirrormere? I can take you   
  
wherever you wish to go, but let us leave before the snow!"  
  
This was a lot of information for a mere scone to take in, and Kemen Yäve's eyes shined with delight at   
  
the prospect of adventure. "Of course, let us leave!" she cried. "If I am forced to stay here for yet another   
  
month I shall eat myself! My friend, tell me more of Middle Earth."  
  
And so the two bounced merrily along the grey plains of Mordor, talking and listening to tales of old.   
  
Their clear song and laughter shook the black mountains and, although they did not know it, the sound of   
  
their presence was heard by many.  
  
  
  
After a few weeks, they were within sight of Cirith Ungol. One night they were lying on their backs,   
  
staring up at the stars and talking about Mordor and the sense of foreboding Lina was feeling. Lina told   
  
Kemen Yäve about how she sang to Sauron last year during her annual journey away from Mordor, just   
  
before Winter arrived. She described him as a merry fellow, who took care not to step on her. However, she   
  
sang, since four months ago, roughly the time Kemen Yäve was created, Lina had been careful to avoid him   
  
during her roaming around Mordor. She sang that he had left his little cottage surrounded by rose bushes and   
  
his pet chickens, and had somehow managed to begin to build himself what seemed would eventually be a   
  
fortress of great size. Three weeks ago, not long after leaving the place where the two companions had met,   
  
the scone had looked upon the half finished tower of Barad Dûr with interest when Lina quietly pointed it out   
  
to her in a rather grim sonnet. They were very glad that they were walking in the opposite direction.   
  
After discussing Sauron and his possible plans, the conversation drifted towards what they would do   
  
once out of Mordor. It seemed that they would pass Cirith Ungol in just a few days, yet they still had not   
  
decided where to go from there.  
  
"I wish to go to that place you spoke of yesterday, Lina. What was it called... was it Moria?"  
  
"Ah, yes," sang Lina, "Moria. I think you would enjoy exploring that place. The caverns, the grandness,   
  
all made to impress. But I may be wrong - I have never been to Moria before, yet I heard tales, long ago when   
  
I was young. Just an innocent shoot in the field... " A wistful look came into Lina's eyes. "Alas, I shall never   
  
journey that far away from Mordor; Mordor is the only place for me... so I expect you shall one day have to   
  
return and tell me all about Moria."  
  
"What?" said Kemen Yäve in surprise. "You aren't coming with me to Moria?"  
  
"Oh, no! It is much too far! I could not possibly..."   
  
"But..." the scone protested, beginning to panic. "But you say Rivendell is even further north than Moria;   
  
will you not go there either?"   
  
Lina laughed. "Of course not, my dear scone! I must return to Mordor before the spring. I could not   
  
possibly journey to any place farther away than Fangorn forest! How would I get back to Mordor in time?"  
  
Lina gracefully shook her head, laughing softly. All was silent for a moment while Kemen Yäve sat,   
  
deep in thought.   
  
"Lina," she began quietly. "Will you not tell me your story?"  
  
"I have told you many stories already. We must rest soon if we wish to visit Gondor for twenty days, as   
  
you wish."  
  
"I need you not to tell me more stories of Middle Earth. But I would like it muchly if you could tell me   
  
why you need to return to Mordor before the Spring, as you so often say."  
  
"Ah, that is a long tale filled with much sadness, I am afraid." Lina bowed her head. "Are you sure you   
  
wish to hear it?"  
  
"Of course!" Kemen Yäve looked up at Lina eagerly.  
  
"Eh, very well then." Lina spoke softly, looking up at the stars while she pondered how to tell the story.   
  
"I shall tell it to you without a song; I have no doubt that you have grown tired of my endless melodies."  
  
The scone shook her body (as she had no head) in denial. "Why would you suggest such a thing?"  
  
"Many beings are easily irritated by my songs; grass blades, dandelions, ice buns... they're usually   
  
bloody terrified when I start to sing. I don't suppose anyone has ever met a singing grass blade. But my   
  
singing never used to cause a problem. It all began with my blade colour. You see, I am not nearly as green as   
  
normal grass. In fact, I'm positively yellow. That is what set me apart as a young shoot, and that is why the   
  
other shoots teased me. So I began to sing. I discovered I could sing very well, so I sang some more. Soon, I   
  
had a song for everything, from sonnets about the sky to normal everyday conversation... not that I conversed   
  
much with other beings: I was usually just singing to myself. In a dark corner. Beneath a rock, perhaps.   
  
"Anyway, one day I was singing in an empty puddle of mud, (since all the grass blades had run away   
  
from me, as usual) when out of nowhere came one of my aunties. She told me that I would have to leave, since   
  
I seemed intent on singing day in, day out. Apparently it was causing quite a problem, as whenever I arrived   
  
in a field all the grass blades within the field wanted to evacuate, and many of them die in the struggle to get   
  
away from me...   
  
"So I was banished from all the fields of Middle Earth. I was told I would have to spend the rest of my   
  
life in Mordor, where nothing grows... Of course, I am allowed back to other places when winter comes, and   
  
it's a good thing too; the winter in Mordor is harsher than winter in any other land.   
  
"I visit Gondor, usually, where I can warm myself by people's fires. But I have to make sure I get back to   
  
Mordor before Spring, as that's when all the plants are reborn again. I still do not mix well with other grass   
  
blades - not when I am known throughout Middle Earth as a Disturber of the Peace." Lina hung her grass tip   
  
sadly.   
  
Kemen Yäve stared speechless at Lina, disbelieving that any beings could be so cruel.   
  
"That's terrible, Lina... so you spend most of your year here? In Mordor?"  
  
"Well, yes, it's the only way I could possibly be allowed to- "  
  
A piercing shriek rang through Mordor, startling Lina into silence. The two companions looked up at the   
  
sky in surprise as what seemed to be a bird flew high above their heads. But it was too large for a bird. As it   
  
passed over them, it slowed down, and they lay still in the shadows, hoping not to be seen or heard. They   
  
were lucky; the creature passed over them without further delay.  
  
"What was that?" the scone asked quietly.  
  
"That was a creature I have heard several times during our journey, and I am sure it has heard us as well.   
  
We must be careful when we pass the border of Mordor... we would not like it if we were to get squishayed."  
  
"Squishayed?"  
  
Lina nodded, and straightened up, falling asleep. 


	4. Pie Crust chapter 3

- three - Farewell to Mordor  
  
Lina and Kemen Yäve woke up early the next morning and immediately set off, due west. They were   
  
travelling quickly; the air of Mordor had grown even fouler overnight and their longing to get out   
  
strengthened. Within a few hours they could see the tower of Cirith Ungol.   
  
Creeping stealthily among the shadows, Kemen Yäve and Lina watched a large number of ugly   
  
creatures patrolling the area, carrying knives and other brutal weapons. Lina gulped when they saw one of   
  
them idly hack at the ground.  
  
"How do we do this? How do get past the ooooorcs? We must journey on, we must not give up, for I   
  
must arrive at Gon... dor... Before the winter comes! Before the winter- "   
  
"Shut up!" hissed the scone. "If we wish to get past these orcs, as you say they are called, we must not be   
  
heard! We may be small but, according to your tales, many creatures have ears where we, er... do not expect   
  
them! Now listen, I have a cunning plan..."  
  
Kemen Yäve whispered something to Lina, whose eyes bugged out of her yellow grass tip head.   
  
"Are you sure we'll be able to do this? Sounds awfully risky to me..." she sang doubtfully.  
  
"Of course!" replied Kemen Yäve cheerfully. "Now if you just carefully walk out a little, that's it..."  
  
Lina bounced out of the shadows and straight towards one of the larger orcs, yet it did not see her   
  
approaching. Lina began to jump up and down higher and harder, and even started to bounce on its foot. It   
  
still did not notice her presence.  
  
"Excuse me!" she bellowed. "Can you get your army or your scout group or whatever to let us past,   
  
please? We could really do without the extra hassle. Please..." Lina trailed off, glancing at the orc in defeat   
  
while it continued to sharpen it's knife.   
  
"Go on," encouraged the scone. "Try something else. Something you're better at..."   
  
Lina looked up at the orc again. She coughed.  
  
"Oh, most wondrous orc! Most foulest of things! Oh, how your stench infuriates me!" she sang in a loud   
  
voice. The orc dropped his knife in shock, and Lina dodged to avoid being flattened by it. The orc looked   
  
around for the source of the voice, and then bent down for his knife.   
  
Lina the grass blade was standing on top of it.  
  
"Eh?" Before the orc could say or do anything else, Lina began to serenade him.  
  
Orcs are not used to being serenaded. Particularly this orc. Lina's song struck his eardrums into   
  
stupidity, and he keeled over in shock. As Lina reached an especially touching verse about rainbows,   
  
memories of the orc's childhood and beyond rushed back to him; playing with the other orc kids, eating,   
  
playing, eating, laughing when his orc friend tripped over a banana skin, eating, crushing his friend's skull   
  
with a club, eating, getting a place in the Orc Military, eating, being promoted to General Really Top Superior   
  
Orc, eating... and now, as he looked back on his life and what he had become, his despair emerged from the   
  
hidden, most barren corners of the soul.   
  
He cried.  
  
Kemen Yäve saw a conveniently placed handkerchief on the ground nearby, waddled over to it,   
  
waddled back, and presented it to the orc.   
  
"Cheers." The orc blew his nose.   
  
The small scone turned to Lina, who blinked away a tear.  
  
The orc began to howl and wail, as he remembered how his mother had taught him a very important   
  
lesson about his personal hygiene, right before she died. The other orcs in the General Really Top Superior   
  
Orc's patrol team plundered over to him, shared similar stories about their shrouded pasts, and within a few   
  
minutes they had a little Family Time huddle going on. They released their sins, their not-so-hidden rage,   
  
and their most terrible secrets. Several got rather upset. A few descended into rage. Pretty soon they were   
  
beating each other up, the fight centered around a small group who were yelling incomprehensible things at   
  
each other along the vague lines of 'girlfriend', 'with' and 'slept'.  
  
Kemen Yäve poked Lina.  
  
"I guess this would be our cue to leave."  
  
  
  
The two small beings leapt over the rocks, tripped, got up again and leapt some more as they made for   
  
the river Anduin.   
  
"Look! I can see it! Look at the wonder that lies over there!" Lina danced about, pointing maniacally   
  
with her head.   
  
Kemen Yäve had never seen such a beautiful thing in her existence. It's power overwhelmed her and she   
  
felt irresistibly drawn to it. There it lay... gleaming in the Sun, that seemed to have risen high in the sky just to   
  
honor the presence of such a child of love and goodness and pretty things. Slowly, Kemen Yäve waddled as   
  
though in a dream, her eyes lost with desire, while Lina continued to dance in ecstasy. Closer and closer the   
  
scone waddled, towards the river... Towards the donut.  
  
"Hark!"  
  
The scone heard Lina's cry and snapped out of her trance. She turned to face her friend. Except that Lina   
  
was difficult to see, as she was in the shadow of a huge creature, a beast of the sky.   
  
Lina was running towards the shocked scone, but the shadow continued to loom over her, moving with   
  
incredible speed, never falling behind. Kemen Yäve stood motionless, unsure of what to do and even more   
  
unsure of the abomination that bolted ever nearer towards her.  
  
"What is it?" As soon as she yelled the words, the scone knew how stupid the question was. What is it?   
  
What's the problem? Oh, nothing to worry about, it's just a huge black thing that popped out of the sky,   
  
chasing us, and probably about to beat the crap out of our innocent lives.  
  
Kemen Yäve rolled her eyes at herself and focused on Lina again, who was still bouncing towards her.   
  
She was a lot closer now, and her faint voice was screeching something about the beast towering above her.  
  
"It's a pigeon!"   
  
"A what?" the scone yelled back.  
  
"A PIGEON!"  
  
"A pigeon?"  
  
"Yes!"  
  
"Isn't that a bit of a silly name?" Yet another stupid question. Kemen Yäve wanted to shoot herself for   
  
her lack of assertiveness in situations such as these.   
  
Lina could be heard screaming as she tore over the ground. The scone watched her, silently thinking   
  
about what should be done.  
  
  
  
Kemen Yäve began to run.  
  
  
  
Or, rather, waddle with extreme speed.  
  
  
  
For dramatic effect, she screamed as well.  
  
  
  
Soon, Lina had caught up and the two were waddling quickly over the hard ground together, still   
  
screaming.  
  
"PRAY!" encouraged Lina.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Pray!"  
  
"Satay?"  
  
Lina gave up and once more resorted to screaming. Kemen Yäve shrugged and joined in, again.  
  
They reached the donut, but their panic blocked out the joy they should have felt at being so near it, and   
  
their yells rang out loud above the faint humming that the donut emitted. The two companions catapulted   
  
themselves into the ring of the donut and quivered in fear, eyes shut.  
  
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"  
  
"Stop screaming," Lina advised.  
  
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"  
  
Lina was about to repeat herself and let the conversation slide into an exchange consisting of only   
  
'Aaaaaaaaaah!' and feeble protests against the yelling, when she saw the pigeon land in front of the donut, its   
  
shadow blackening the ground wherever it turned. Kemen Yäve shut up.   
  
Silence.  
  
Well, nearly silence. The scone and the blade of grass could not fail to notice how loud the humming   
  
donut really was. The ever-lasting, single note that told the never-ending story of all things donutty was   
  
rather unnerving. Lina poked the donut. The humming paused, a splodge of jam shot out in a fraction of a   
  
second, and the donut resumed humming. Kemen Yäve raised her eyebrows, and shrugged again.  
  
A footstep. The pigeon had taken a step closer, and it was now right in front of the donut and its   
  
temporary inhabitants. They could see a brown, bulbous eye stare into their own... but then Kemen Yäve   
  
realized something.   
  
She cleared her throat quietly.  
  
"Shut up!!!," Lina yelled in panic. "It'll HEAR us!!!!!!"  
  
"I think," the scone said testily, "It already has. But it does not care."  
  
"Of course it does! The bloody thing wants to kill us; we are in his territory! It hates us!" Lina ranted.   
  
"We are the mould to its bread! We are the killers of its children! We are the spider to its arachnophobic mind!"  
  
"Lina, it wants the donut. So I suggest we leave them both alone to work something out."  
  
"Ah."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"No."  
  
The scone sighed. "Why not?"  
  
"Firstly, we can't give it away... it smells so delicious and scrummy. The pigeon can't just take it!"  
  
"And yet it's ours to take?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Ah."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because this donut does not belong to us. This donut is his own self, his own donut. We should leave it   
  
alone. To eat it or give it away would be like a donut version of the slave trade - ignorance of basic rights. So   
  
if the pigeon wants the donut, he'll have to argue with the donut about it, but we are not to interfere by   
  
standing in the way."  
  
"So are we move out of the donut ring? I don't understand. You want us to 'get out of the way' and   
  
stand in full exposure of that pigeon's beak and sharp talon things?" Lina asked incredulously.  
  
"That's the point; the pigeon does not want to kill us with his beak or 'sharp talon things', but we will be   
  
harmed if we stand in the way of his compromise with the donut, since we are currently squashed up inside it.   
  
The donut will not take responsibility of our lives. We have to make our own decisions. This is how the world   
  
works, my friend."  
  
  
  
*Kemen Yäve turns to audience, wearing a serious expression that yells, "I am the ultimate dictionary on how to deal with life's   
  
mishaps. Come, let me kiss your babies!"*  
  
  
  
Kemen Yäve (spoken): "Remember that, kids."  
  
*end short cheesy interval*  
  
Lina nodded solemnly. Side by side, the two companions started to clamber out of the ring, when a   
  
sudden flash of dark yellow streaked into the donut hole, right in front of them, and then shot out again.   
  
Kemen Yäve, once more, instinctively shut her eyes.  
  
  
  
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"  
  
When she opened them, she realized she was covered in sticky strawberry jam. Before her was a gaping   
  
crater in the donut's flesh. Jam continued to pour out of it, where the chunk of donut had been torn off.  
  
"Well, isn't that just..." Kemen Yäve was furious. "Lina, did you see that? That bastard of a pigeon didn't   
  
even give the donut a chance to negotiate! He didn't even consider the worth of the donut's life for one moment!   
  
This is murder! That pigeon is a complete and utter twit! I wouldn't be surprised if it returns home to a death   
  
sentence if it carries on like this. Honestly..." The scone sighed. "Lina? Lina?"  
  
She spun around wildly. Lina was nowhere to be seen. Neither was the remainder of the donut, which   
  
had been devoured while Kemen Yäve ranted, apparently to herself... She was alone.  
  
The shadow of a gigantic beast rose high in the air, and Kemen Yäve gazed up at the sky to watch the   
  
bird leave Mordor, and journey South. The scone wanted Lina to quit hiding now, and appear standing next   
  
to her saying, "Sorry about that; just went invisible for a second."  
  
  
  
But she had already reached the obvious conclusion of events, and knew that Lina would do no such   
  
thing. 


	5. Pie Crust chapter 4

- four -  
  
Alone, and Forth to Gondor  
  
  
  
¤ "Excuse me! Please, kind sir and Mr. Security Guard, I'd like to request, um - I'd like to request... please, listen -"  
  
Guard: "So, the weather was awful last night, wasn't it? It was raining like hell... which is a pretty awful place   
  
as well. Haha! Pun!"  
  
Guard's Long-Suffering Friend: "Um... yeah. It was terrible. I constantly wish for the sunny weather of   
  
Rivendell."  
  
¤ "Excuse me!"  
  
Guard: "Y'know, I heard about a plan to capture the Sun - with a net, HAHA! -- and put it above Gondor... I   
  
guess it's already above Gondor and the Rest of Middle Earth anyway, but haha!"  
  
Guard's Long-Suffering Friend: "Riiiiiiight."  
  
¤ "Please...?"  
  
Guard: "Haha, imagine the looks on those elves' faces. We would have the Sun's wonderful rays of light   
  
shining upon us all year round. And they wouldn't! HAHA!"  
  
Guard's Long-Suffering Friend: "Is this your idea of humor?"  
  
Guard: "Yes."  
  
¤ "Why aren't you paying any attention to me?"  
  
Guard's Long-Suffering Friend: "Yeah... you're pretty shitty at that, aren't you?"  
  
¤ "Listen to me! Please, I know I'm small, but..."  
  
Guard: "Haha, you just said a bad word, you made a funny!"  
  
Guard's Long-Suffering Friend: *sigh*  
  
¤ "AAAAARRGH! Listen!!!"  
  
Guard: "Look, it's a scone. Tee hee."  
  
Guard's Long-Suffering Friend: "Wha...? Where'd that come from?"  
  
¤ "Finally, you're paying attention. Now..." *clears throat*  
  
Guard: "It's a little yellow, so it must come from the Sun. HAHA!"  
  
¤ "I request entry to your wonderful city, my good Gondorians."  
  
Guard's Long-Suffering Friend: "Should we eat it?"  
  
Guard: "You go ahead; I don't want it. I'm too fat already. Hee hee."  
  
¤ "Eat me?! I want entry to your bloody city!"  
  
Guard's Long-Suffering Friend: Nah... I can't eat that. I don't know where it's been.  
  
¤ "I'll have you know I've been into the very depths of Mount Doom."  
  
Guard: "That's obvious, my long suffering friend; it came from the Sun! The Sun's so happy and peaceful that   
  
this scone won't do any harm to-"  
  
Guard's Long Suffering Friend: "You wanker."  
  
¤ "I agree."  
  
Guard: "What if we leave the scone alone?"  
  
¤ "No, don't leave the scone alone. The scone needs you to OPEN THE FRIKKIN' GATE!"  
  
Guard's Long-Suffering Friend: "Whatever. I'm going. It's getting dark."  
  
Guard: "Fare thee well! I shall watch these gates with the eyes of a hawk, and listen with the ears of a dog,   
  
and POUNCE upon -"  
  
Guard's Long Suffering Friend: "Yeah, yeah, goodnight." [Exeunt]  
  
Guard: "-and POUNCE upon intruders like the lion I am! Aaargh, gaaargh, scurvy intruders: talk to me! Let   
  
me slice your innards into the thickness of string cheese; stand aside while I bellow for the love of my king;   
  
and if your intentions are evil, then despair, for I shall fight for Gondor till the end!"  
  
¤?*sigh* "Why am I doing this...?"  
  
Guard: "HAHAHAHAHA!"  
  
¤ "For the sake of Middle Earth, shut up and let me past..."  
  
Guard: "Here I shall stand, fiends! Till the end! Till the end! HAHA! Tee hee... haha..."   
  
[Kemen Yäve falls asleep]  
  
NEXT MORNING Two men in black capes carry the guard's body back to the mental Institution, where he will be   
  
locked in a room with padded walls and the entire series of Monty Python, to show him true humor and how his   
  
disturbing interpretation of comedy has caused many an unfortunate person to scamper beneath the nearest rock.  
  
Guard's Long-Suffering Friend: "What an idiot."  
  
Kemen Yäve slips through the open gate, into Gondor. 


	6. Pie Crust chapter 5

- five -  
  
Nice Trees... but what a bloody dull city.  
  
Kemen Yäve skipped along the pathway. In fact, it was hardly a skip, and more of a frantic dash away from   
  
the feet that pounded upon the ground around her. Nevertheless, she was in a joyous mood. So she pretended she   
  
was skipping.  
  
It had occurred to her that perhaps, to complete this image of being happy and carefree, she should sing.   
  
However, this idea was shot down by the fact that she had had it drummed into her head that scones were not   
  
expected to sing. She had come to this conclusion the second she arrived at Gondor, when she sang a short sonnet   
  
about ferns, and quickly saw the shocked, fearful looks of people and various other beings trying to look like   
  
people. The disapproval she sensed was further clarified by the attempts to kill her, via much stamping of feet,   
  
throwing of moldy potatoes and shouts of "It's a singing scone: Kill it!"  
  
So she shut up, silently wondering what scones were allowed to do. Kemen Yäve had no experience at   
  
dealing with proper citizens of a city such as Gondor - in fact she had no experience at dealing with people of any   
  
sort at all. Her only friend had been a blade of grass, who let her do whatever she wanted.   
  
"Why can't these people be more like Lina," the scone muttered irritably.  
  
After a little experimentation, she came to the verdict that scones were also not allowed to dance, perform   
  
street magic, eat trees, tug at people's trouser legs/beards/nostrils, cannonball into mugs of beer, meditate publicly,   
  
diss cats, announce 'My head is not a carrot', or attempt to speak Elvish.   
  
Tired and worn out after hours of trying to carry out the above tasks without one assassination attempt per   
  
passer-by, Kemen Yäve sat down to a skill she prided herself in. A skill that she was miraculously born with. It   
  
was as though it had come straight from her creator, and had implanted itself into her unconscious mind...   
  
*mystical music*  
  
  
  
Underwater basket weaving.  
  
  
  
The scone soon learned that underwater basket weaving was apparently also frowned upon when practiced   
  
by scones.  
  
This made her rather frustrated, and more than a little angry. "No wonder these people are so damn   
  
unhappy - look! Look at them! Their faces are so droopy and sad. Idiots! Do something with your life! Take up a   
  
hobby, do something that sustains your interest, and then teach other people how to do it! Everyone would be so   
  
much more content with life... Grrr, why did I ever wish to enter such a dull, sorrow-ridden city?!"  
  
Suddenly, Kemen Yäve had an idea.   
  
She ended her speech, quickly apologized to the stray cat she had temporarily sought the attention of just for   
  
the sake of having someone to rant to, and scuttled down the road to the stationary shop.  
  
The scone deftly stole a pad of paper and some chalk, ran out of the shop and settled down beneath a nearby   
  
tree, sheltered from the inquisitive faces of strangers and the feet of the less friendly strangers.  
  
On the paper, she wrote this;  
  
  
  
Underwater Basket-Weaving ***  
  
Little of consequence has been written on the subject of underwater basket weaving. Thorough searches of   
  
the world's most complete reference libraries turned up disappointingly few references to major publications,   
  
scientific studies, archaeological expeditions, or even trivial haiku poetry on this significant craft.   
  
  
  
It is for this reason that I consider this work a groundbreaking study, the first fully documented history of   
  
an ancient skill released into the public consciousness. I am fully prepared for a skeptical reception, for few works of   
  
this caliber are easily accepted. The information it contains blazes a new trail in anthropology, one that has been   
  
carelessly neglected by scholars worldwide. ?  
  
  
  
  
  
She continued to write, and soon had pretty much the entire, fascinating history of underwater basket   
  
weaving documented within one notepad. The scone then wrote the following words on the cover:  
  
  
  
WHOMEVER PRESENTS THIS NOTEPAD TO THE STEWARD OF GONDOR SHALL FROM THEN ON   
  
PROCEED TO LIVE A LIFE CONSISTING ENTIRELY OF SEX, DRUGS, ROCK N' ROLL AND   
  
CHAINSAWS. CHAINSAWS COMPLIMENTARY; THE REST ARE ONLY APPLICABLE IN THE EVENT   
  
THAT THE TASK IS FULFILLED. GO GET 'EM, TIGER. GROWL.  
  
  
  
Smirking, she threw the notepad into the thick of the Gondorian crowd and lay back to watch the scene   
  
unfold. She didn't have to wait long; within a few minutes a cry of wonder emerged from the crowd.  
  
  
  
"A message... a message from the prophet!"  
  
  
  
Kemen Yäve said 'Pfft', rolled her jam blob eyes, and quickly piled them back onto herself when they   
  
abruptly rolled off the side of her body.   
  
Another cry rang out, sounding even more stupid and baffled than the first.  
  
  
  
"Could it be...? Yes, it could! It is most definitely a message from a prophet!"  
  
  
  
Everyone gasped.  
  
  
  
The scone turned away and waddled lazily up the road, while the crowd behind her continued to yell and   
  
shout with delight as they read the notepad filled with words from the supposed Prophet of Underwater Basket-  
  
Weaving. She even ignored the excited humans when they proceeded to worship the notepad, and sacrifice   
  
turnips, sheep and small children in its honor.  
  
And still the scone waddled. "Silly cults," she murmured. "This is just like Monty Python."  
  
She grinned a manic grin that would have made Lina proud.  
  
  
  
Over the next few weeks, rather visible changes took place in Gondor. The number of convenience stores fell   
  
to make way for stores that sold specialty materials - materials that, not surprisingly, were required for   
  
underwater basket weaving. Shops sold diving suits. Citizens trained themselves in the art of holding their breath   
  
underwater, to encourage production of the best baskets possible. Gondor gave up chess. Row upon row of men   
  
and women alike could now be seen out on the riverbank, diving in and out, making basket after basket.   
  
This enthusiasm was, of course, influenced by the Steward of Gondor himself, who had also taken up the   
  
hobby, as a replacement for stamp collecting.  
  
Kemen Yäve silently watched the city reform itself. Although proud of her apparent success, she could not   
  
help but think how stupid these people were. How easily they could be influenced. Gondor was obviously not   
  
under strong leadership if its people would change their city's century-old way of life just because some idiot   
  
found a notebook full of crap and thought it came from some God who was so obviously (to anyone but a   
  
Gondorian) also full of crap.  
  
But what Kemen Yäve was mostly frustrated about was the fact that these people had no idea why they were   
  
making countless baskets in the first place. To be honest, the scone didn't have much of an idea either.  
  
So she continued to observe from a secluded place along the riverbank, but not too near it. There wasn't   
  
much else to do. It was because of her constant watch and immunity to the underwater basket weaving addiction   
  
that she foresaw a potential economic disaster before any of the brainwashed Gondorians could.  
  
  
  
  
  
Douglas Adams perhaps best describes this kind of economic disaster. The man is not an ecologist or   
  
whatever they're called nowadays, but a comedic genius. Therefore we should trust him and his judgement on   
  
such scenarios. Because... he's a comedian. Everyone loves comedians. [/end lame attempt at excuse of adding   
  
even more Douglas Adams into story]  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Short extract from The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, Chapter 10  
  
``I'll tell you the story. Would you like to hear it?''   
  
``Er ...''   
  
``Many years ago this was a thriving, happy planet --- people, cities shops, a normal world. Except that   
  
on the high streets of these cities there were slightly more shoe shops than one might have thought   
  
necessary. And slowly, insidiously, the numbers of these shoe shops were increasing. It's a well known   
  
economic phenomenon but tragic to see it in operation, for the more shoe shops there were, the more   
  
shoes they had to make and the worse and more unwearable they became. And the worse they were to   
  
wear, the more people had to buy to keep themselves shod, and the more the shops proliferated, until   
  
the whole economy of the place passed what I believe is termed the Shoe Event Horizon, and it became   
  
no longer economically possible to build anything other than shoe shops. Result --- collapse, ruin and   
  
famine. Most of the population died out. Those few who had the right kind of genetic instability   
  
mutated into birds --- you've seen one of them --- who cursed their feet, cursed the ground, and vowed   
  
that none should walk on it again. Unhappy lot. Come, I must take you to the Vortex.''   
  
  
  
  
  
And so this is what Kemen Yäve foresaw. The unnaturally high number of diving suit shops would force   
  
Gondor to fall into ruin. And it would be her fault.  
  
Technically, it would be the fault of the mindless cretins who followed the teachings of the Underwater   
  
Basket-Weaving notepad without question. But their actions can be blamed on the idiocy of their genes and,   
  
therefore, their relatives.  
  
The scone leapt out of her hiding place and tore across the riverbank. She ignored the countless, joyous   
  
people as they dived into the water and then emerged 20 minutes later with a wonderfully constructed basket. She   
  
ignored the street peddlers that sold basket weaving materials, and the large stores that supplied high quality   
  
diving suits -- the likes of which have not been seen anywhere else in Middle Earth.   
  
However, the one thing she could not ignore was the area where baskets were discarded once their makers   
  
had grown tired of looking at them and tweaking them to make them look just right. Within this area was a large   
  
mound of baskets - no, an enormous mound that dominated the skyline and sunk the rest of Gondor into shadow.  
  
Kemen Yäve ran even faster. She ran to the parade, where the Steward would be carried around on a   
  
levitating chair and praised like a true king. The silly oaf.  
  
The scone began to wave her miniscule arms around and shout at the Steward as he passed on his levitating   
  
chair, (which was obviously not levitating but carried around on the backs of hunky men). She didn't know what   
  
she was doing, but suspected it had something to do with getting the Stewards attention and then alerting him of   
  
Gondor's inevitable fate.  
  
"I have something to tell you! I must confess!" she yelled. "I wrote the book! I wrote about underwater   
  
basket weaving! You can ask me any question about it, and I can answer it. But what's important is that you don't   
  
pay anymore attention to my book! Please, listen to me! Gondor will fall if your continue to listen to the prophet!   
  
For heavens sake, dammit, there is no prophet! I wrote the book! It's fake!"  
  
The Steward passed her by a few feet and disappeared into the sunset, followed by his admirers, and also   
  
several assassins.   
  
"Well, that worked just swell," Kemen Yäve muttered, trudging back to her hiding place for another day of   
  
gazing at the stupidity of Gondor.   
  
However, although the Steward had not heard her, someone else had.  
  
Kemen Yäve found herself scooped up into the cruel and firm hands of a poor beggar who lived on the   
  
streets. He dropped her roughly on the floor, but then picked her up again when she attempted to escape.  
  
"Let me go, you silly Gondorian git!" she yelled furiously.  
  
"No no, wait a second." He seemed just as angry, but a lot bigger to boot, so the scone shut up. "You just   
  
said you wrote the book of Underwater Basket-Weaving... Is this true?"  
  
The scone nodded, and soon regretted it.  
  
The beggar began to rant. "Those promises never came true! I found that notepad, and it never worked! You   
  
lied to me. You LIED! YOU... ARE... A... LIAR...!!! I waited for so long, just waiting for my reward to come, but it   
  
never did. I ignored my friends when they urged me to try out underwater basket weaving - I told them that I'd   
  
stick it out and wait for my reward for giving the notepad to the Steward, and then I'd have no need for baskets.   
  
I'd have a life of sex, drugs, rock n' roll and chainsaws. But that won't ever happen now... I could have gone with   
  
my friends! I could have made something out of my life! You ruined me, scone! You destroyed my future - and for   
  
what? A book? A cult? Followers? The Steward's approval? I don't understand, and I don't want to!"  
  
The beggar began banging his head on the wall while the scone backed away cautiously, marveling at how   
  
events sort themselves out. When she was confidant that the beggar was in a world of his own, she set off at a run.   
  
And was picked up by someone else.  
  
"IT WAS YOU!!!!!" the deep voice of her new capturer echoed throughout Gondor.  
  
Kemen Yäve sighed. She was getting awfully tired of this.   
  
The frustrated scone looked up at the face of this new acquaintance, and realized who it was.  
  
"Are you Gandalf?" she asked, peering at him with curiosity.  
  
He appeared rather flustered and more than a little embarrassed at being recognized. "Well yes, now that   
  
you mention it, I am." He beamed, but then remembered his agenda and set his face into a solid frown.  
  
"The thing is, Kemen Yäve Ar Ruth Lhach, I have a bone to pick with you."  
  
"A bone?"  
  
"Yes. A bone."  
  
"What kind of bone?"  
  
"There is no bone - it was just an expression."  
  
"An expressive bone?"  
  
"No..." he sighed.  
  
"Where can I get myself an expressive bone?"  
  
"Listen!" the wizard snapped.   
  
"Really?"  
  
Gandalf put a hand to his forehead. "I'm going to have a stroke in a minute," he muttered.   
  
"Please don't. We've only just met. And if you were to have a stroke I would believe I am cursed, seeing as   
  
my last friend was mistaken for a donut and eaten by a bird, and my attempt to make this city a happy place has   
  
resulted in the damnation of a beggar's whole life and the potential ruin of Gondor. Not to mention the fact that   
  
just because I'm a scone they won't let me sing or talk to cats."  
  
  
  
Gandalf sat down rather heavily.  
  
  
  
"Right," he murmured distantly. "Let's start again." He plonked the scone down beside him on the bench   
  
and fixed her with his most serious stare. Satisfied with the image he was conveying, he continued.  
  
"I am not happy with what you have done to this city," he announced.  
  
"Well I'm not surprised. To be honest, I'm not terribly pleased about it either. It didn't work out very well,   
  
you see. I originally intended -"  
  
"Shut up," Gandalf hissed.   
  
"Okeday."  
  
"Do you have any idea," he continued to hiss, "what the Steward of Gondor now spends his time doing?   
  
When he should be running his city, when he should be trying to prevent it from ruin and famine, from loss of   
  
honor? Do you know what he does instead?"   
  
Kemen Yäve shook herself.  
  
"He dives, and constructs baskets. Via weaving. Underwater."  
  
The scone blinked.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Yes?!" screeched Gandalf.  
  
"Er... yes?" asked the scone hopefully.  
  
"Don't you see what's wrong with this picture?" the wizard said, now positively spitting as well as hissing.  
  
"Like I said: yes. The Steward should dedicate more of his time to improving his city. That's why I   
  
introduced basket weaving in the first place - everyone's happier! Sure, they may be the stupidest and most easily   
  
influenced people in the world, but at least, as far as they know, the city has improved. The only thing wrong with   
  
this plan is the over-enthusiasm. It will result in economic disaster! The Steward needs to listen to me, because I   
  
need to tell him about what will -"  
  
"Oh, I think you've told him enough! Kemen Yäve, I must now go and sort out this mess before it gets out of   
  
hand. I appreciate the fact that you understand the problem with Gondor and its leadership, but you will not be   
  
forgiven yet - because you started this whole ruddy thing! Now, I am sending you to my friend, the highest of my   
  
order. He should be able to keep you out of trouble while I convince the Steward that basket weaving will never   
  
defeat the evil of Mordor!"  
  
Before Kemen Yäve could protest or even offer information about the status of Mordor, having left there less   
  
than 2 months ago, she was teleported out of the street and away from Gondor. Far away, right into the depths of   
  
Isengard.  
  
  
  
In Isengard waited a wizard who had earned his title well. He was extremely clever, even more cunning,   
  
and within him he yielded the power to destruct a race, or grant it the fortune to live forever until time crumbled   
  
unto itself. This wizard was Saruman the White, and as he sat on his chair, he was aware that Middle Earth knew   
  
exactly who he was. Gandalf knew as well. Of course he did; he knew every ounce of the power Saruman had, and   
  
he knew the terrible and great things he could do with it.   
  
What Gandalf did not know was that, at that precise moment in time, Saruman the White was wearing a   
  
yellow and black polka dot tie and tearing across Isengard on a bicycle.  
  
  
  
  
  
*** This is an extract from http://sporkqueen.diaryland.com/010517_9.html If you would like to read more, please be my guest and follow the   
  
link to the essay on this intriging subject. NOTE: I am fully aware that underwater basket-weaving involves snorkelling gear and water and all that, but   
  
let's just assume that the residents of Middle Earth always conveniently carry around their own snorkel and swimming pool in a handy satchel. 


	7. Pie Crust chapter 6

- six - The Joker  
  
  
  
Ebert's Office. Our dimension : 10 days after the creation of Kemen Yäve Ar Ruth Lhach. Middle Earth :   
  
1000 years after creation, 6 months after rising, and 2 months since leaving Mordor.  
  
Figwit sits in Ebert's office chair, waiting for his boss to enter. Figwit's sudden urge to cut his   
  
hair and wear an unnassuming, contented expression makes him look similar to Mr Bean. He   
  
begins to spin around on the chair.   
  
[ Enter Mr. Ebert, wearing a grey suit, and the deeply stressed face of a man who has just jumped off a   
  
bridge, learnt of his wife's act of adultery with his mother, jumped off another bridge, and come home to see   
  
that his mansion has been demolished to make way for a puddle of rainwater that environmentalists claim   
  
will one day be the origin of all of mankind's cheese products and eventually the center of galactic civilization.   
  
Of course, none of these things have happened to Ebert, yet, but the author finds them interesting to   
  
imagine. ]  
  
As soon as Ebert appears, Figwit stops spinning on the chair and begins to blubber something   
  
about being sorry.  
  
Ebert dismisses his apologies with a wave of his hand, and commands Figwit to go back to   
  
Middle Earth and get back to his orginal task - the destruction of Middle Earth. However, Ebert   
  
reveals that the success of this mission relies on its secrecy - the other Academy members think   
  
that the problem is already solved, and Middle Earth has gone forever. Never again will there be a   
  
Lord of the Rings film, and never again will its fans complain when it does not win 'Best Picture'.   
  
Apparently.  
  
With a sharp order and a reminder about secrecy, again Ebert sends Figwit off to his filing   
  
cabinet, and on to Mordor.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Kemen Yäve peered cautiously around the glass vase. She had appeared quite suddenly onto a shiny   
  
mahogany desk, and wasn't quite sure what to do with herself. So she decided to hide behind some flowers.  
  
"Hello," said the flowers cheerfully, speaking together as one.  
  
The scone froze, and then stared rigidly up at the flowers, who were gazing down at her inquisitively --   
  
if a flower can ever be described as inquisitive. She hesitated.  
  
"Hello?" she asked quietly after a ten minute silence.  
  
"Hello."  
  
"Hi."  
  
"Hello."  
  
"Er..."  
  
"Hello."  
  
Here Kemen Yäve was, lost and not to mention a little scared, on a strange desk, about to meet some   
  
strange being whom Gandalf had abrubtly sent her to, and the only remotely intelligent beings within hearing   
  
range were a group of flowers who spoke repetetively, in unison. She could not help but feel a little irritated.   
  
"Is that all you say?" she snapped.  
  
"No."  
  
"Would you like to tell me where I am, then?"  
  
Pause.  
  
"No."  
  
Kemen Yäve sighed and let herself collapse down the side of the vase.  
  
  
  
After about an hour she heard the sound of a bell. It sounded suspiciously like a bicycle bell. Sure   
  
enough, a bicycle rode into view.  
  
Kemen Yäve knew enough about the world to understand that bicycles are not rode indoors, and those   
  
who do that usually have a remarkably good excuse. However, the man who was on the bicycle looked as   
  
though this excuse was not going to be offered by him within the next decade.  
  
The man appeared to be elderly. His flowing white beard was of an extremely fine and well-tended   
  
quality, if you avoided looking at the multicoloured ribbons of various sizes that adorned it. He wore robes   
  
that were obviously expensive and in pristine condition, if one ignored the fact that they were of a sky blue   
  
and fiery orange colour scheme. His eyes were bright and blue, almost unnaturally so. In his right hand he   
  
wielded a majestic looking staff. His left hand was occupied with the two tasks of directing the bicycle around   
  
the room in circles whilst avoiding the antiques, and honking the bell as much as possible.  
  
After a while the man found it necessary to desist in this (although entertaining) not terribly productive   
  
past-time.  
  
He leapt off his seat and strode towards the desk.   
  
"Hello," said the flowers.  
  
"Hellooooo," the man cooed.  
  
Kemen Yäve stared.  
  
The man must have sensed this, because he shot out a hand and slided the vase to the edge of a desk so   
  
that Kemen Yäve was finally exposed from her hiding place.  
  
"Er.. hello?" she offered, hoping that she didn't sound too flower-like.  
  
He grinned.  
  
With a startlingly acrobatic jump, he was standing on top of the desk chair.  
  
"Do you know what time it is...? Of course you don't! You are new to Isengard, how can you be   
  
expected to know what time -" He cut himself off and smacked his forehead. "Welcome to my wonderland of   
  
fun and chocolate snowmen. Oooh, those trees, their colours give me quite the headache! But I am glad, for no   
  
other land on this side of Middle Earth has trees of such a purple as they are here! Oh no, sir!"  
  
The man spun around in circles, making car noises.  
  
"Vrooooom, vrrooom, VROOOOOOOOM! Oh, around the socks we go! Around the ducks we flow!   
  
Vrooom!" He began to opera sing.  
  
"Erm..." Kemen Yäve started to speak quietly. She was incredibly unsure of the whole situation. The   
  
man spun around and looked the scone straight in her jam blob eyes.  
  
"I am Saruman! The White! Saruman of the Snow - oh, it'll be a jolly fine winter! And... you! You...! You   
  
are...!"  
  
"Erm..." she repeated, this time even more quietly, as though she were toying with the idea that how   
  
oddly the man behaved depended on how loud her voice was.  
  
"Oh, I know! You are Gandalf's little helper!"  
  
"That's not exactly the correct term, but if you insist, then, yes. I do try to help," she said, finally finding   
  
her courage -- although admitttedly, not a lot of it.  
  
"AHHHH... I see! Well, in that case, tell me about Gondor!" He pulled up the chair and sat at the desk,   
  
looking eagerly at the poor scone.  
  
Kemen Yäve was not to be fooled. She still held enough faith in Gandalf's reputation to know that the   
  
wizard he had sent her to could not usually be as odd as this. She silently wondered what had happened to   
  
him, but decided to save questions for later. For now, she could take advantage of this fortunate situation and   
  
use the man's temperory idiocy to get herself out of trouble, and out of Isengard.  
  
"Well," she began, "It's interesting that you asked me this, because I find that Gondor has improved   
  
muchly since my revolution."  
  
"Yours, you say?" asked Saruman, wide eyed with child-like curiosity.  
  
"Yes. I wrote a book, and I feel it has changed Gondor, possibly forever. In fact, I believe that it changed   
  
all of Middle Earth. Or, rather, it could have. If only Gandalf hadn't decided to reverse its effects."  
  
"How rude!"  
  
"Indeed," Kemen Yäve nodded with enthusiasm.  
  
"You must do something about this!" cried Saruman.  
  
"Well, that's not really my plan. I don't really want to do all that stuff to Gondor again, because I admit   
  
that Gandalf does actually have a point. I just like complaining about it."  
  
"NO! What he did was UNFORGIVABLE! You cannot change an entire city and then have him barge in   
  
like a musk ox and reverse all your wondorous magic! It's not just rude! It's like stamping on freshly baked   
  
cookies! It's like dropping a mountain onto custard pies just because they're more yellow! It's like telling fish   
  
that they should become crocodiles and then not even arranging their pension schemes! It is, I REPEAT,   
  
unforgivable!"   
  
The little scone was a little worried at this point. This conversation wasn't going at all how she intended.   
  
Panicking a little for fear of complete failure, she tried to divert the conversation back to her original plan.  
  
When she looked back at Saruman she found that he was now swatting flies.  
  
"Um," she began. Saruman continued to swat the flies, and then started on the nearest window. "Eh..."  
  
"Yes?!" raged the old wizard, sitting on the floor and nodding his head.  
  
"Beh..." explained Kemen Yäve.  
  
"Would it make you more comfortable if I stopped cooking dinner?"  
  
"Is that what you were doing?" asked Kemen Yäve faintly, close to insanity.  
  
"No. But I can, if you like."  
  
The scone coughed. Saruman took this as an invite, and Kemen Yäve found herself attempting to speak   
  
above his voluntary sound effects of whisking egg white.  
  
"And you go like this..." He began to hum. "And then... voila!"  
  
After he demonstrated the imaginary frying of chilli peppers and then the baking of donuts, all with   
  
more voluntary sound effects, the scone thought it necessary to restrain him from play-cooking any longer.  
  
"I have some information for you!" she yelled to attract his attention, whilst mentally searching for some   
  
information to tell him.  
  
"Oh really? What's that?"  
  
"I have realised that... uh... your apron is BLUE!"  
  
Of course, this was a complete and utter lie. Saruman was not wearing an apron at all, but Kemen Yäve   
  
realised it would be best to pretend as though he were.  
  
"I do?! Schmeck, you're right! I'm wearing an apron!"  
  
The scone grinned patiently and encouragingly. She spoke again.  
  
"Well, now that I've told you some useful information, may I now leave Isengard?"  
  
"Of course! You may have the power of speed!" With a "Zap!" and an equally unnecessary "Kerrrrow!",   
  
Saruman cast upon Kemen Yäve the gift of speed. This was more than she had ever hoped for. The scone   
  
would have been perfectly content to thank Saruman and then zoom out of the door right at that instant, had   
  
not Saruman suddenly called for more useful information.  
  
"Uh..." she started. "The Royal Duck of Mordor is on the loose!"  
  
"Most excellent!" cried Saruman, apparently ignoring the fact that there was no such duck, and even if   
  
there was, it would not be Royal as Mordor does not have a monarchy, which is an extremely sensible idea   
  
and one that other countries would do well to copy. Particularly that place called Britain.  
  
"I think I'll make you water-proof!" Saruman yelled out enthusiastically. And with a 'Shazaaam!',   
  
Kemen Yäve was waterproof.  
  
"Thank you!" cried the scone in delight. "Then I'll just be going now, yeah?" Without waiting for an   
  
answer, she jumped off the table and made for the door, waving to the flowers as she went.   
  
"Hello," said the flowers. Kemen Yäve smiled patiently, and was almost out of the door when she heard   
  
Saruman speak again.  
  
"Off to find Figwit, eh? I hear he was last seen in Gondor."  
  
The scone turned around. "Who?"  
  
"Figwit. I have no doubt that you plan to ask him why he didn't give you the gift of speed!" Saruman   
  
laughed, a little more than was needed.  
  
"Uh..."  
  
"Run along!" cried the wizard, and with a 'POOOF!', she had been zapped out of the castle stright onto   
  
the fields of Rohan, wondering who the hell Figwit was and, more importantly, how quickly her new powers   
  
allowed her to run.  
  
  
  
  
  
Later that day in Isengard, Gandalf made his way up to Saruman's tower. There he found the old   
  
wizard leaning back calmly in a chair, smoking a pipe. Gandalf looked around the room. It was unbelievably   
  
immaculate. If, at that moment, Gandalf had been looking for a bicycle - which he wouldn't - he would not   
  
have found one. And if Gandalf had expected Saruman's white beard to be adorned with multi-coloured   
  
ribbons of varying sizes - which he wouldn't - he would have been disappointed.  
  
"Greetings," murmured Saruman quietly, lost in thought.  
  
"Hail," Gandalf replied.  
  
The flowers were silent.  
  
"So..." began Gandalf, after an awkward silence, "Did you keep that scone out of trouble? I've just spent   
  
the entire day clearing up that mess in Gondor. Underwater baskets everywhere... pffft, and the Steward   
  
completely entranced with them... I'll tell you, it was a damn troublesome thing to sort out. I also had to   
  
convince half the bakeries of Gondor that it is not acceptable to eat baskets. It was quite the - "  
  
"Silence!" boomed Saruman. "I will not have any more talk of Gondor's state, nor the abomination of a   
  
scone that you sent to me!"  
  
"Okeday," Gandalf said cheerfully, who was in fact quite glad about this. "I'll just, er, let myself out   
  
then..."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Farewell." Gandalf stood at the door for a few minutes, and when Saruman still did not respond, he   
  
turned to the flowers.  
  
"Farewell," he repeated.  
  
The flowers said nothing.  
  
Gandalf shuffled out of the door.  
  
Once he was out of the tower, Saruman got up wearily and sat down again, next to the flowers.   
  
"Ugh... if he found out what happened earlier on, I'd be in serious shit."  
  
"It'd be an outrage. Saruman the White, smoking weed," the flowers cooed in unison. "I can think of   
  
several puns for that that would make for rather catching newspaper headlines."  
  
"I'm sure you can... as long as he doesn't find out what I did to that scone, I'm out of trouble, I guess."  
  
"Ah, but you also set the name 'Figwit' in Kemen Yäve's mind. As well as the rumour of his location.   
  
That wasn't extremely intelligent either..."  
  
Saruman shrugged. "I was high. Besides, I think it's for the best."  
  
The flowers sighed. After a few minutes silence, they offered a leaf to the wizard. "You'll get to ride the   
  
bicycle again... " the flowers grinned in a flower-like manner, and Saruman found himself taking the leaf and   
  
putting it in his pipe.  
  
"Sure, why the hell not?" 


End file.
